You Can't Win 'em All
by Jade Nolan
Summary: "Mac's face melted as the burden of carrying his emotions grew too much for his little six-year-old heart in the face of his father's understanding." - little Mac has to learn a tough lesson in his Chicago neighborhood.  A one-shot story.


Mac slunk back into the house, stifling his sniffs so his mom wouldn't hear him come in. He cuffed the tears from his face, gingerly avoiding his left eye which was already nearly swollen shut and throbbed painfully. He could hear his mom doing stuff in the kitchen, and dashed past the open doorway and up the stairs. In the kitchen, his mom turned off the tap where she was scrubbing potatoes for dinner.

"Mac?"

"Mac, that you?"

Mac ignored her and rushed into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Leaning his back against it briefly, he took a couple of gulping breaths trying to swallow the tears that threatened to properly overtake him. He looked down at his boots, blinking furiously. Then the disgust and shame he'd been feeling, boiled over. He tore off his camo jacket and pants, and threw them and his boots as hard as he could across the room. His bare chest heaved up and down as his little body tried to deal with more emotions than it knew how to handle.

His vision started swimming as tears reaccumulated, and he dashed across his room to his closet. He squirmed as far as he could into the back depths of the dark space, pushing the door as closed as he could from the inside. He buried his head in his knees as he drew them up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He winced as the bruises on his ribs pulled sharply. The pain flushed the last bit of adrenaline from his system, and his small shoulders shook as the tears he'd so valiantly been holding back, finally came. He sobbed in the back of his closet, a little ball of abject heartbreak.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

JoAnn Taylor paused at the sink as she heard her son try to sneak into the house. It usually meant he'd gotten into trouble of some sort and was hoping that an undetected entrance would translate into an undetected crime. He had yet to learn it almost never worked. She smiled and shook her head as she resumed scrubbing the potatoes. Then she heard a couple of sniffles, and paused again. Mac was a child who did and felt nothing by halves. He had a quick temper, flashing eyes, a keen sense of injustice, and a surprising level of empathy for a boy his age. But he rarely cried.

There were sounds of little boots running up the stairs behind her as Mac clearly hoped she was too preoccupied to notice he had come in. She turned off the tap and glanced over her shoulder. "Mac? Mac, that you?" she called. He didn't answer her, and she heard his door slam close. There was a momentary pause followed two muffled thumps. Then there was absolute silence.

She wiped her hands on a towel and went to the end of the stairs.

"Mac?" she called up after him.

"Mac, are you ok?"

Nothing.

Now feeling a little concerned about her boy, JoAnn climbed the stairs after him, and opened his door. There were sounds of crying coming from inside his closet. She noticed his camo's strewn across the floor, his jacket with more one rip in it, and two scuff marks on the wall where his boots had bounced. Him throwing them must have been those two thumps.

She crossed his room and gently pushed the closet door open.

And there he was, all curled up tight on himself, stuffed behind the books and toys that occupied the space, and sobbing his little heart out.

"Mac?" she asked, instantly quite worried. Mac did _not_ cry like this. Moving a stack of books out of the way she sat down next to him and laid a hand on his heaving back. "Mac, sweetie, what's wrong?"

Mac refused to lift his head out of his knees. "N-Nothing," he said between shaky gulps for air.

"Mac," his mother said gently reproachfully, "_Something's_ wrong. Why are you crying? And why did you take your clothes off?"

Mac curled his toes under his feet inside his socks, which besides his boxers, were all he was still wearing, and hugged his knees tighter. He took a couple of long breaths as he tried to gain enough control to speak. He lifted his head a couple inches off his knees, damp curls plastered to his forehead.

"They won," he finally wailed, and burst into sobs again.

JoAnn leaned down closer to him and wrapped her arm around him, "Mac, who won? What _happened_?"

But her little boy was inconsolable, and she couldn't get another word out of him.

There was a soft knock at the entrance of Mac's room. She looked up and saw the elder Mac Taylor standing in the doorway, a puzzled, concerned look on his face.

_What's going on?_ he mouthed at her.

_I have no idea,_ she mouthed back with a small shake of her head.

She leaned back down to little Mac. "You want to talk to your dad about it?" she asked him.

Mac shook his head violently, dark curls spilling over his bare arms. His father was the last person he wanted to talk to.

His father, however, nodded to his mother with a little jerk of his head over his shoulder. JoAnn nodded understandingly back at her husband, and with a final rub of Mac's back, she stood up.

Mac Sr. carefully lifted more books and toys out of the way and sat down next to his little boy, pulling his knees up like his son's.

Mac, aware that his dad was now sitting next to him, pushed himself further into the back corner.

His father just sat there for a few moments, not saying anything and let the surrounding silence grow soft, but Mac's cries did not lessen. McCanna had never seen his boy this upset. He reached one arm out, and gently pulled his little son, who remained stubbornly balled up, into his strong embrace. The tears continued, but Mac's sobs grew quieter and farther apart.

McCanna kissed the top of Mac's head. "Come on little guy, what's going on?" he asked him.

Mac's grip on his knees relaxed and he leaned, exhausted, on his father's side. His crying finally came to a slow, ragged stop, but he kept his head buried, and refused to meet his dad's eyes. He had no idea how to put into words the emotions that still filled his whole being, and how he had completely failed his father and hero.

"Mac, look at me," McCanna said tenderly, gently but firmly extricating Mac's chin from his knees.

Mac half-heartedly resisted his father's efforts, but reluctantly let his face get lifted from its hiding place for the first time since barricading himself in his closet. His eye, lip, and whole head were hurting rather badly by this time, and his six-year-old pride could override his physical pain for only so long, especially since his father didn't seem in the least bit upset with him.

McCanna looked at his son's face with some horror, rage at whoever had done this to his boy filling his brain. He'd fully expected to have to deal with the repercussions of childhood fights, particularly given Mac's hot tempered impetuosity and propensity to act first and _maybe_ think later. But the child was still only six for gods sake!

"Jesus, Mac!" he breathed, the fact that he was swearing, not even registering, and taking in his son's swollen black eye, fat lip and dirt-streaked face, "What the hell happened?"

Mac's lip quivered as he met his father's gaze. "They won, daddy. They won." Tears filled his eyes again and spilled over as simple, childhood grief and pain replaced the more complex emotions that he had had no idea how to deal with or express.

McCanna's heart felt like it would burst as he watched the pain his little boy was in and his struggle at trying to comprehend the whole thing. He lifted Mac into his lap and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and completely protected. Mac collapsed against his father's chest, totally spent.

The two sat for a long while without moving or saying anything. McCanna gently stroked his son's hair as Mac lay in a hot, limp little heap in his arms. He seemed so small and fragile. Then Mac's shoulders started to shake again.

McCanna kissed the top of his son's head. "What's wrong, little guy?" he asked him gently.

"My face hurts, daddy," Mac said his voice trembling as the tears slowly started again.

McCanna carefully extricated them from the closet and stood up, lifting Mac with him. "Come on, let's get some ice," he told his boy.

Mac wrapped his arms around his father's neck and laid his aching head on his shoulder, not wanting to be anywhere else anymore. His daddy wasn't mad or disappointed with him, even though he hadn't told him everything that had happened yet. He clung to him as they went down the stairs to the kitchen.

JoAnn looked up as the pair came in. Her eyes grew big, as, away from the dark of the closet, she saw for the first time the bruises on Mac's ribs. She rushed over as McCanna sat on one of the kitchen chairs, setting Mac gently in his lap again. She laid a hand on her son's head and lightly touched his injured face. Mac flinched in anticipatory pain, even though she barely brushed her fingers along his jawline. "Oh, Mac!" she exclaimed. She looked back up at her husband. "What happened?" she asked him.

"He got into a little fight," McCanna said simply. "Can you get us some ice in a Ziploc bag and a kitchen towel?" he continued.

JoAnn nodded, and unknowingly, the same thoughts that had run through the head of her husband only a few minutes previously, now cascaded through her's. She fully expected Mac to get into his share of scuffles, but hadn't anticipated dealing with it so soon. He was his father's son, no question about that!

Wrapping the ice filled plastic bag in a towel, JoAnn brought it to where Mac was sitting on his father's lap. She carefully put the homemade icepack to his face and slid her hand out from under McCanna's as he took over and held it with gently against their little boy's injuries. Mac whimpered as even the slight pressure against his black eye hurt. McCanna cupped Mac's head with his other hand, and pulled him back against his chest. He noted Mac's hands which were also bruised and knuckles slightly scuffed. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he bit back an all-out grin. Even though the boy had been clearly outmatched, his wee spitfire had at dished out at least a couple of his own blows.

"Shh, Mac," he said, kissing him through his mass of dark hair, "You're going to be fine. It's going to be okay."

And for the first time, Mac believed that it was.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

When the bag of ice had gone all melty and quite warm, McCanna peeled the damp towel from Mac's face. The boy hadn't moved once, and McCanna couldn't remember the last time Mac had sat still for so long.

"You ready to go get some clothes back on?"

Mac nodded and sat up. He pointed at his eye, "It still hurts though, daddy."

McCanna slid his boy off his knee, and stood up. Taking Mac's hand, he led him slowly back up to his room. "It's going to hurt for a little while," he told him as they climbed the stairs. "Some things you just can't do much for, and unfortunately black eyes are one of those things."

"Is this a black eye, daddy?" Mac asked.

"Yes it is," his father told him. _And you're probably going to get quite familiar with them_, McCanna thought wryly. "But we'll put more ice on it later, ok."

"Okay," Mac answered. It really had made his face feel better in the end.

They went into Mac's room. McCanna let go of his son's hand and picked up the camo's that Mac had strewn across the floor. From the end of his bed, Mac drew to a halt and became very quiet. His father held up his jacket which had received the brunt of the damage.

"Shall we take this to your mom to get fixed up?"

"No!" Mac replied vehemently, taking a step backwards. "Just throw it away!"

McCanna looked puzzled at his son. Mac had half turned away, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes flashed as his bare chest heaved up and down. McCanna looked between the scuffs on the wall where Mac's boots had hit and his angry son. A realization of why Mac had torn his clothes off and now wanted nothing to do with what his parents could normally barely pry him out of, dawned on him. He walked over to Mac, who had now completely turned his back and was standing with his arms crossed, head down, and little shoulders hunched. He knelt down next to him and placed a hand on his back. Mac twitched angrily away from him.

"Mac," his father said somewhat reproachfully, "Come on, turn around, talk to me. What's going on? Why do you want to throw them away?" He took Mac gently by the shoulders and turned him around. He ducked down and peered up into Mac's still downcast, angry face. "Hmmm?"

Mac's head swirled as a million thoughts and feelings struggled to get out. The anger and shame he had felt earlier flooded back, and despite there not being a hint of displeasure from his father he still couldn't bring himself to say what had happened. He didn't want to remember.

"Mac?" his father asked patiently.

Mac's face melted as the burden of carrying his emotions grew too much for his little six-year-old heart in the face of his father's understanding. His words came out in rush, tumbling over each other as the relief of finally telling what happened shattered any restraint he had.

"They said I shouldn't pretend to be a soldier if I couldn't fight like one and that I wasn't doing it right and that soldiers don't sneak around like that and I said you were one and showed me how and they said you weren't a proper soldier then, and I told them to eat dirt…"

McCanna choked back a laugh at this last statement. But his furious little boy plowed on.

"…and then they pushed me and said to make them and said a real soldier would fight and win and pushed me again and said you probably never fought either so I hit them…" Mac paused and took a deep, gulping breath, trying to bring himself to tell the worst part of the story.

"And…?" his father prompted gently, proud as hell of his boy.

Mac looked at his scraped hands. "They won, daddy," he said finally, remembering being overpowered by the older boys, and in the end unable to do anything but lay curled up on the ground while one of them held him down and the rest aimed several departing kicks to his ribs, hurling taunts of _"Yeah, that's what we thought!"_ as they left, laughing. He finally raised his brimming eyes to his father's face, the utter humiliation he still felt, too much to put into words. He waited for the disappointment that was sure to come from his father now.

But McCanna read every unspoken thought in his son's crushed body language, and his heart about broke for his boy who was standing in still nothing but his socks and boxers.

"Come here, Mac," he said, pulling his little bundle of misery towards him, "Come here."

And Mac, not seeing even a trace of disapproval in his father's face, and hearing nothing but absolute tenderness in his voice, wrapped his arms around his dad's neck and collapsed in final tears on his shoulder.

McCanna felt his own eyes brim as he hugged Mac. The poor child expected so much out of himself, and was a far harsher judge of himself than anyone else.

"Mac, listen to me," McCanna said in his son's ear, not loosening his embrace, "There is no shame in losing as long as you never gave up. Every soldier loses a battle some time, but a proper soldier _never_ gives up, even if he loses in the end. And that's what counts." He set Mac in front of him and gently held up one of Mac's hands, "You never gave up, did you."

Mac stared at his knuckles which still stung, then looked up at his dad and shook his head. He hadn't, not even when there was absolutely nothing else he could do.

McCanna gazed intensely at his son. "And that's what counts," he said. He kissed Mac on the forehead, "You did good, son. You did good."

Mac nodded and sniffed, wiping his nose with his arm.

"Now, go pick out some shorts and a t-shirt and let's get you some clothes back on." McCanna picked up Mac's tattered camo jacket and inspected it again. "How about we just get you a new one?" he said as Mac rummaged in his dresser for a t-shirt. As much as the little guy might be now reconciled and as okay as he could be with his defeat, McCanna knew that the sting of the event would stick with him for a while, and the scuffs and unfixable little tears in the jacket would be an unnecessary reminder. He suspected Mac wouldn't wear it for a good long while. Getting him a new one would be the fastest way to help him get over this whole thing as positively as possible. Besides, he suspected JoAnn wouldn't be thrilled at the prospect of patching and repairing all the stains and tears in it anyway.

Mac's face lit up at his dad's suggestion as he fumbled with the button on the waistband of his shorts.

McCanna crossed the room, knelt down and helped him do it up.

"Can I?" his son asked.

"Of course," McCanna answered. "A soldier's always got to have a good uniform."

Mac beamed.

McCanna pulled the t-shirt Mac had picked out, over his son's head, stretching the neck so it didn't press painfully on Mac's still swollen black eye. He took Mac's hand, "Come on, let's get more ice for your face."


End file.
